


call someone who cares

by thunderylee



Category: Kis-My-Ft2 (Band)
Genre: Canon Universe, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, M/M, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-26
Updated: 2013-04-26
Packaged: 2019-01-16 11:56:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12342243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunderylee/pseuds/thunderylee
Summary: Of all the times Fujigaya should have never answered his phone, riding the bullet train late at night rates up at the top of the list.





	call someone who cares

**Author's Note:**

> reposted from agck. written with mousapelli for kink bingo (single line: dirty talk, phone sex, exhibitionism).

Of all the times Fujigaya should have never answered his phone, riding the bullet train late at night rates up at the top of the list. It’s not even that he had his ringtone turned on—it was still on vibrate from rehearsals—but one look at the caller ID had him rushing to accept the call, thinking the worst.

“I’m bored,” Kitayama’s low voice pierces through the hum of the train. “What are you wearing?”

Fujigaya rolls his eyes. “I actually thought someone was _hurt_ , you asshole.”

“You’re on the train, right?” Kitayama asks, ignoring Fujigaya’s insults as usual, and Fujigaya feels a shiver like Kitayama was actually there watching him. “Is there anyone else awake?”

“I don’t think so,” Fujigaya answers, looking around as discreetly as he can and only seeing a few businessmen slumped over their briefcases with their eyes closed. “What do you want?”

“I told you, I’m bored,” Kitayama says firmly, like that explains everything. “And so are you, since there’s no one to talk to and you don’t sleep well in public.”

He’s got him there, Fujigaya thinks. “Fine, I’ll talk to you. What’s up?”

“That’s not what I asked.” Kitayama’s voice gets deeper, if that’s even possible, and Fujigaya feels that shiver again. “What are you wearing?”

“You’re not serious—”

“Answer the goddamn question and I might make it worth your while,” Kitayama cuts him off, and there’s something about his tone that has Fujigaya licking his lips and looking around one last time.

“The same thing I wore at rehearsal,” Fujigaya answers with a sigh. “T-shirt and track pants, jacket zipped up because it’s cold in here.”

“Unzip it,” Kitayama orders.

“What?” Fujigaya rolls his eyes. “I just said, it’s cold!”

“Slow,” Kitayama continues, as if Fujigaya hadn’t said anything. “Slow like I would. Let your fingers brush the front of your T-shirt a little on the way down.”

“This is ridiculous,” Fujigaya scoffs, but one hand comes up without permission to toy with his zipper pull, and his voice isn’t very commanding. “Why should I?”

“Slow, Taisuke,” Kitayama repeats, the command silkier this time, Kitayama’s voice low enough to make Fujigaya’s skin prickle. It’s as if Kitayama is right next to him instead of half a prefecture away, whispering into Fujigaya’s ear. “Take your time for me.”

“Whatever,” Fujigaya says, voice quiet enough that probably Kitayama can barely hear it. He’s already dragging his zipper down, though, slow like Kitayama asked. He tugs it down, past his sternum, past his stomach, knuckles brushing over his T-shirt lightly. He shivers a little, as if it really were Kitayama behind him and reaching around to unzip him instead of his own hand. “There.”

“Hmm,” Kitayama hums, enough like _I knew it_ to make Fujigaya’s hackles rise. “Now run your fingers over your stomach, over your shirt, light as you can.”

“Mitsu—” Fujigaya protests, because he is not doing this on a train, seriously, but Kitayama interrupts him before he gets out another word.

“I’m doing it,” he breathes into the phone. “I’m pretending it’s you. I love your hands, you know. It’s driving me crazy thinking about you having them on me properly, like I want you to. You want me to touch you too, right?”

“Yeah.” Fujigaya gives in and lets his head tip back against the seat, closing his eyes. When he grazes his fingers across his stomach, so lightly, it’s easy to imagine they’re Kitayama’s hands instead, warm and guitar-callused, familiar from all the times they’ve been forced to hold hands for some stupid shoot.

“That was entirely too easy,” Kitayama says with a short laugh. “I should have made a bet.”

“Shut up,” Fujigaya mumbles, shooting a quick glance to the side to see if there has been any stirring amongst the train. There hasn’t. “Shut up and keep going.”

Kitayama makes a low, pleased noise, and Fujigaya feels it course throughout his entire body. “What makes you think I’m going to do all of the work?”

“You called me,” Fujigaya answers simply. “And I’m _on the train_.”

“I am very aware that you’re on the train,” Kitayama says, his voice deepening, and Fujigaya shifts at the lust that seems to tickle his ear. “I wonder how far you’ll go.”

Suddenly it feels like someone poured ice-cold water down the back of Fujigaya’s shirt, freezing him to the spot. “How far do you _want_ me to go?” he hisses.

“We both know the answer to that question,” Kitayama tells him, and dammit, he’s right. Even on a train, even with just a voice for stimulation, Fujigaya’s hand twitches on his belly with the urge to go _down_. “As long as you don’t stop, neither will I.”

“What does that me—” Fujigaya starts, but then Kitayama lets out a noise that cannot be mistaken for anything other than what it is, a soft moan that has Fujigaya squirming and wanting to adjust his pants. Though he doesn’t dare touch himself right now; apparently that’s on the agenda for later, anyway.

“You can feel it, right?” Kitayama asks, and Fujigaya nods before he remembers that Kitayama can’t see him. “Go higher, Taisuke. Are your nipples sensitive? I bet they are, with as much as you try to hide them. Take one between your fingers for me, over your shirt.”

Fujigaya makes sure to keep his jacket covering his arm as he follows directions, curling toward the window like he’s sleeping. He’s nearly shaking with anticipation, the thrill of doing this in public, even if he’s not really doing anything yet. He’s already straining his jeans, every move he makes a rub of friction, and he jerks slightly when he runs a finger over a nipple, inhaling sharply.

“Thought so,” Kitayama chuckles, the noise rubbing over Fujigaya’s skin. “You like that?” When Fujigaya doesn’t answer right away, Kitayama coaxes, “Tell me.”

“Yes,” Fujigaya murmurs. He pinches a little harder and the whimpered _ah_ he gives into the phone is echoed almost immediately by Kitayama. “Now what?”

“Run your finger over your collarbone,” Kitayama answers, so quickly Fujigaya is sure that he’s thought about this, about the things he wants to do to Fujigaya. It makes Fujigaya shiver, wondering how long Kitayama’s been working on this fantasy, if he thinks about it in bed or in the shower, if he’s gotten himself off to it. “Slip your finger under your collar and trace it, touch your skin for me.”

As soon as he obeys, Fujigaya has to bite down on a groan that is not at all okay for the train, sleeping neighbors or not. Even though he’s not touching anywhere very scandalous, it sets off a chain reaction over his skin that reaches down much lower under his shirt, making him want to strip the whole thing off so the fabric isn’t tickling his over-sensitive skin.

“Even over the phone you sound good,” Kitayama praises, and Fujigaya has to say that he agrees, the feeling mutual. “How badly do you want to touch yourself right now?”

“A lot,” Fujigaya mutters, already flushed cheeks going even pinker. It’s all he can do to keep from groping himself right through his track pants, but he’s afraid if he starts he won’t be able to stop.

“I’m already touching myself,” Kitayama says, then laughs when Fujigaya hisses a couple choice curse words, the sound rich and low. “You want to, right?”

“Not here!” Fujigaya hissed, a little panicked because he isn’t sure he can really tell Kitayama no in his current state, but he has enough sense to realize that anybody could come into the train car and see him at any moment.

“Can’t have you getting arrested for public indecency, I suppose,” Kitayama says. Fujigaya’s shoulders relax a little until Kitayama suggests, “Are you on the end of the car near the bathroom?”

“Yes…” Fujigaya says slowly, glancing around. He’ll have to stroll by some people and walking is going to be awkward, but if he hustles it up nobody will notice.

“Hurry,” Kitayama encourages, then moans softly. “Don’t get left behind.”

Fujigaya is out of his seat like it’s on fire, positive he looks entirely conspicuous as he shuffles down the aisle of the train car as quickly as he can. When he gets to the space between the cars, the bathroom is mercifully unoccupied, and he shuts himself in it quickly and locks it before slumping against the door in relief. “I’m inside.”

“I wish,” Kitayama says, his voice pure sin, and Fujigaya’s too distracted by the little hitches of breath in his ear to realize what Kitayama had just implied until after the fact. “Too bad I’m not there with you. Do you want to know what I’d do if I was?”

“Yeah,” Fujigaya replies, and to hell with waiting for instructions—his hand is in his pants so fast that he doesn’t even bother untying them. He’ll worry about the circulation of his wrist later. “Tell me, Mitsu.”

“I’d shove you down onto the toilet and ride you,” Kitayama practically growls, and Fujigaya bites his lip to keep from being too loud; the bathroom isn’t soundproof, after all. “I’d hold onto your shoulders while I bounce on your dick and make you say my name over and over.”

“Mitsu,” Fujigaya complies, his hand speeding up on its own. “Mitsu, I’m close.”

“Me too,” Kitayama gasps. “Are you imagining fucking me?”

Fujigaya wheezes out his next breath. “Yeah.” And he is, his hand tightening around himself like it’s Kitayama’s body, strong thighs on either side of his weighing him down as he rocks back and forth faster than Fujigaya can handle.

“Good, because so am I.” Kitayama makes a noise that rumbles through the phone, which Fujigaya nearly drops as it brings him to the brink. “Fuck me harder, Taisuke, let me hear you.”

Tiny moans fall from Fujigaya’s lips as he thrusts up into his own hand, pretending that Kitayama’s on his lap instead of so far away. “Mitsu, fuck, I’m gonna come.”

“Come for me,” Kitayama hisses. Fujigaya lets go only a second later, pulsing over his hand and shivering all over. Over the phone, which it’s a miracle he hasn’t dropped right in the sink or worse, he hears Kitayama give a long, low moan that makes the hair on the back of Fujigaya’s neck rise and sends another wave of aftershocks rippling through him.

His head falls back against the bathroom door with a thunk as he finishes, panting and thighs shaking like Kitayama had been really riding him. The only difference is that the fantasy wears off right away, leaving him alone in a tiny train bathroom in a pair of despoiled pants he has to wear all the way back to Tokyo.

“Fuck,” Fujigaya sighs.

“Fuck yes,” Kitayama counters, sounding much more satisfied than Fujigaya feels. He’s probably rolling around in his blankets like a little kid, damn him, Fujigaya thinks sourly. But then Kitayama asks, “We can, right? You weren’t just saying that so I’d get you off?”

“You want to?” Fujigaya blinks. Kitayama having some fun at his expense over the phone is one thing, but this something else entirely. He thinks about having Kitayama in his bed for real, or Kitayama’s bed, or even a hotel bed, and can’t stop the soft noise of want from slipping out of his mouth.

“I told you,” Kitayama says. “As long as you don’t stop, neither will I.”

“I…” Fujigaya starts, still catching his breath as his skin burns even more with the possibility of making this real. “Yeah, okay.”

“You should hang up before you leave the bathroom,” is all Kitayama says. “You don’t need anyone getting any ideas.”

Fujigaya hangs up the call and cleans up as much as he can, feeling even more paranoid as he returns to his seat like there had been a camera on him displaying everything he’d just done to the entire train. Naturally nobody is even remotely interested in him right now, letting him relax a little and start to drift off to sleep…until his phone vibrates again.

This time it’s a text: _I could go again if you’re up to it_.

His nerves spark at the thought, but he just rolls his eyes and sends off one last message before shoving his phone back into his bag.

 _Maybe in the morning, and this time I want pictures_.


End file.
